


Crepes of Wrath

by MxTicketyBoo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Absurd, Angels, Bad Cooking, Crepes, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Cute, Demons, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fun, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Queer Themes, Quote: We're On Our Own Side (Good Omens), Sappy, Short & Sweet, Sweet, mimosas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxTicketyBoo/pseuds/MxTicketyBoo
Summary: Home-cooked meals were good in theory, but his angel would be hungry, and Crowley would be damned—again—before he served Aziraphale a subpar crepe.





	Crepes of Wrath

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Good Omens fic, written mostly as a therapeutic exercise because I love these two so much and the show is one of the few things making me happy lately. I needed to write something fun and sweet just to work out some of these feelings. (Also, I'm from the US and tried my best with the Briticisms, but please excuse any mistakes if my American English shines through.) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

The thing about crepes was, unlike houseplants, they couldn’t be terrified into obedience. What was a demon to do, then, when he got a wild idea in his head to cook a brunch worthy of The Ritz—and of a certain soft, fluffy haired angel with a fetish for good food—but the blasted crepes kept burning at the edges or tearing whenever he tried to flip them over?

Improvise, of course. After all, Crowley himself had invented improvisation right around the same time Head Office told him to slither up to Eden to make some trouble.

Really, the bosses were to blame for everything that came after. All it took was Aziraphale admitting he’d given away the flaming sword God Herself had provided him and Crowley felt the dried, hardened pit in his chest cavity fracture and sprout a tiny sprig of reluctant affection that would eventually blossom into his ultimate downfall. A fall even harder and more permanent than the one that had sent him plummeting into a sulfurous pool in Hell to begin with.

How was Crowley meant to resist that anxious, fastidious angel who had a heart the size of the Earth, and underneath all that inherent goodness, just enough wicked self-indulgence to keep him interesting? An angel who lusted after fine food and wine. Who coveted books and knowledge. Who lied directly to the Almighty. Who teamed up with a wily, serpent of a demon to influence the Antichrist and try to thwart the apocalypse both Heaven and Hell so desperately wanted.

Even taking Aziraphale’s unfortunate penchant for tartan into account, Crowley had been a goner from the very start. From the Garden, the Globe, the one and only church he’d ever willingly stepped into, that thermos of holy water Aziraphale had so carefully handed him to spare Crowley from danger, despite his own fear and personal reservations. If Crowley had ever needed physical proof Aziraphale returned his feelings, that was it. That was the moment he’d truly allowed himself to hope that at some point they might have a future together.

And now, he wanted to make brunch for his angel. As a thank you. As a confession. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to force the words “I love you” past his lips. The feeling was there, of course. Had been for several millennia. Always would be, if Crowley were honest, which he rarely liked to be, at least with himself. Saying “let’s go off together” was one thing, but actually _professing_ his undying love? He was a _demon_. He had a reputation to maintain… Or, perhaps, just maybe, six-thousand years as a servant of Hell had resulted in a certain degree of emotional repression. The bosses down there didn’t exactly encourage friendship, affection, or romantic declarations—especially not with the opposition.

However, brunch, that Crowley could do. Possibly. And maybe a marriage proposal, sometime far down the line once he’d worn down Aziraphale’s fears about how “his side” wouldn’t like an angel shacking up with a demon. By now, Heaven knew they were friends. There was no real need to meet in secret anymore. One day he’d have Aziraphale convinced going off together, maybe settling down in a cottage with a garden for Crowley to whip into shape and a few rooms stuffed full of books and cozy, antique sofas, was the next logical step in their evolving relationship.

Rejected by Heaven. Spurned by Hell. Their own side was the only true side anymore, and the only future Crowley would ever accept or contemplate was one where Aziraphale was at his side for the rest of eternity.

At least the mimosas, he had down. Even a messenger of Hell who’d never cooked in his life and used his kitchen exclusively to house his collection of absurdly expensive scotch, could splash some orange juice into champagne. He’d been splashing and sipping at the concoction all morning.

The crepes, those were getting trickier. He’d tried two different recipes. A YouTube tutorial. The results had been nothing but failure. Perhaps because the words on his phone screen were starting to blur. Demons weren’t immune to the effects of champagne, and he was well into the third of the five bottles of Nyetimber he’d purchased for the occasion.

Of course, he could simply miracle the crepes into existence. That felt like cheating, but then again, he _was_ a demon. Cheating was practically in his job description. Except, Aziraphale deserved the effort. If Crowley wasn’t going to actually make the food himself, he might as well just treat his angel to a meal at The Ritz and be done with it.

Crowley drew in a deep, slow breath. Let it out. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Aziraphale’s eyes lit up for crepes as they did for nothing else—save for books, and, most importantly, or so Crowley liked to think, Crowley himself. His angel should have them homemade for once.

“Right… Sssift together flour, sugar, and salt.” Crowley measured out the ingredients for the fourth time. No matter how careful he tried to be, puffs of flour escaped in every direction, and his black-on-black ensemble had begun to resemble a midnight sky scattered with splotchy gray storm clouds. He’d sacrificed his demonic dignity after the second recipe attempt and miracled himself an apron, but truth be told, it wasn’t doing much in the way of keeping him tidy.

How did people do this every day? Or even multiple times a day? The mess, the measuring, the timing, the dishes. For himself, Crowley wasn’t all that interested in food. His demonic body certainly didn’t need the sustenance. Some food tasted pleasant enough, true, but it was the experience of eating _with_ Aziraphale that Crowley liked best.

Regardless of what they were eating or where they were eating it, Aziraphale enjoyed every bite so thoroughly, with such obvious, sumptuous delight. Half the time Crowley couldn’t tear his gaze away as his angel closed his eyes and made blissful, eager noises whenever his lips closed around the tines of his fork. Aziraphale savored each morsel as if it might be his last, and either he didn’t know how all those delightfully sinful sounds affected Crowley—or he knew and didn’t give a rat’s arse about how difficult Crowley found it not to squirm in his seat. Crowley wouldn’t put it past him, the wonderful, sadistic bastard. Thank Satan for jeans tight enough Crowley’s cock didn’t really have room to so much as budge.

Dry ingredients sifted, Crowley turned to squint at the carton of eggs. Empty. For fuck’s sake, how was it possible he’d used them all already?

Growling, he pitched the thing into the rubbish bin. An entire carton of eggs gone to waste, and Crowley had nothing to show for it but a mass of broken shells.

“Right, Crowley. Now _think_.” What could he use as a substitute? Aziraphale was meant to be here in less than an hour. He couldn’t just pop out to the store and risk Aziraphale showing up early and being left to wait in the hallway. His neighbors could barely bring themselves to look at him. Probably, it had something to do with all the shouting he did at his plants. There’d be no knocking on someone’s door to ask if he could borrow a few eggs to make crepes for the angelic love of his life. “You’re quick on your feet. Improvise!”

Crowley glanced around the kitchen. The scotch was out. Obviously. He’d bought butter. Milk. Oil to grease the pan. Berries, chocolate syrup, silky whipped cream, lemon, and powdered sugar for toppings. He didn’t have anything in the kitchen that hadn’t been bought purposefully for this very brunch.

Crowley snatched his phone off the counter. “Siri, what can I use as a substitute for eggs in crepes?”

“Here’s what I found,” Siri replied, and a list of options appeared on his screen.

Crowley flicked through a few sites, gnawing at his lower lip as he scanned the various recipes. Oil seemed to be the ticket. Granted, he hadn’t the faintest idea what eggless crepes might taste like, but there was nothing for it now. He had to try.

He reached for another bowl and threw his wet ingredients together. Dry into the wet, whisk, whisk, whisk, and then he had another batch of batter to work with. He cleaned the pan from his last failed attempt. Re-heated it.

Everything went smoothly enough. For once he was able to swirl the batter into a perfectly round shape. The crepe didn’t stick, didn’t burn, didn’t break when he flipped it over.

Crowley smirked to himself. “Well, look who’s on his way to being a regular gourmet.” Not that he ever wanted to do this again. From now on, he might limit his culinary attempts to tea and cocoa. Nothing but the best blends and varieties for his lovely, finicky angel. Beverages he could handle.

Once he’d made a few crepes, Crowley felt he ought to sample the goods. He ripped a chunk off one of the warm circles, shoved it into his mouth, chewed—and promptly spit it back out.

“Ugh. Bollocks. That’s like chewing a rubber tyre.” He could probably fling it like one of those frisbees the humans tossed to their dogs. It had to be the oil. Even with the burning and the tearing, the other crepes hadn’t tasted this gummy or been this hard to chew.

A glance at his watch confirmed the time. Thirty minutes to eleven, which meant he had maybe twenty before Aziraphale arrived. Punctuality wasn’t necessarily the angel’s strong suit, especially when it came to his business hours. A loose set of possible times he may or may not open the bookshop, more like… but then, Crowley knew Aziraphale never truly wanted to part ways with any of his beloved collection. However, if there was food involved, Aziraphale could be relied upon to not only show up on time, but early even, with bells on.

Snarling, Crowley sent the crepe flying toward the sink, where it landed with a splat. The others followed, and soon he’d enacted revenge on every pathetic crepe he’d attempted to make in the past hour and a half. He eyed the pale-yellow remains, breathing roughly.

Well, home-cooked meals were good in theory, but his angel would be hungry, and Crowley would be damned—again—before he served Aziraphale a subpar crepe.

Nothing for it, then. There was a creperie three blocks over. It wasn’t ideal, and it wouldn’t be the equivalent of crepes in Paris after escaping the Bastille, but needs must.

Crowley grudgingly willed his body sober and dashed out of his flat. It took him all of two minutes to make the drive and screech to a halt in front of the small creperie. The queue extended nearly to the door, and while under normal circumstances, Crowley wasn’t entirely opposed to waiting his turn, this sort of emergency called for drastic measures. With a snap of his fingers, he put everyone in front of him into a trance and shoved his way to the counter.

“I’m going to need all the crepes you have, to take away, right now.”

The cashier blinked at him in consternation and peered around his shoulder at the queue of silent, vacant-eyed customers.

“Er, sorry, sir, but we don’t have any crepes pre-made. They’re all made to order, for freshness, you see, and—”

“Then make me a dozen, as fast as you can. I have an angel to feed and he’s particular about his food, and _I’m _particular about other people keeping me, and him, waiting.”

“Um, right.” The cashier pushed some buttons on her screen, gave him a total, and Crowley shoved a wad of bills at her.

“Keep the change, darling, just make it snappy.”

It was another few minutes before he was walking out the door of the creperie with a warm box in hand.

Crowley wasn’t one for running, but he came close to doing so after he parked the Bentley in front of his building and rushed inside. When he rounded the corner on his floor, he caught a familiar flash of beige and slowed his steps to his usual saunter.

“Angel,” he called. “Prompt as ever, I see.”

Aziraphale turned to him, gifting Crowley with a smile that crinkled his eyes and brightened his face like the sun. “Only when food’s involved, as you well know,” he joked. “You did say we’d be having brunch, yes?”

“I did indeed.”

Crowley waved the door open and gestured for Aziraphale to precede him. Aziraphale had only been to his flat once before, the night they’d narrowly averted Armageddon. He looked at once out of place but as if he perfectly belonged—the light to Crowley’s dark, always and in all ways. Crowley’s breath caught to see him there, but he hid the nerves behind a rakish grin. “You might want to avoid the kitchen for now, angel.”

Aziraphale looked toward the room in question. “Why? What’s in there?”

“A mess.” Another snap of Crowley’s fingers solved that problem. “All better. Let’s get you fed, then. I made mimosas.”

“Oh, I love mimosas!” Aziraphale trailed behind as Crowley led the way. His steps paused on the threshold of the kitchen. “It smells like something burned in here.”

Crowley hadn’t thought to freshen up any lingering smells. Bugger. “Erm. Right. Yeah, so, I actually tried to cook for you this morning. Bought ingredients to make crepes and everything, but it turns out, they’re harder to make than they look.”

“Really?” Aziraphale said, eager and breathless, the same way he’d sounded at the Globe after Crowley agreed to miracle in an audience for Hamlet. “_You_ tried to cook? For me?”

Crowley braced himself before rounding to face him. Aziraphale’s eyes went so soft whenever he was happy, and when he looked at Crowley like that, Crowley grew weak in a way that used to annoy him. Now, he only wanted to keep that gaze on him forever.

“‘Tried’ being the operative word, angel. I had to run out for emergency crepes.” He held up the takeaway box.

But Aziraphale’s smile only widened, and his eyes grew even softer. “And would you have pretended those were yours if I hadn’t arrived here just before you?” he asked, indicating the box with a nod of his head.

Crowley tipped his chin down to peer at Aziraphale over the tops of his sunglasses. “Undoubtedly.”

Aziraphale laughed, delighted. “Of course you would have.” He approached the counter and set down the bottle of wine Crowley hadn’t noticed him holding. His eyes widened as he took in the spread of berries and bananas, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and powdered sugar. “You know, after all these years, you still find ways to surprise me, Crowley. Despite the evidence before me, I can scarcely imagine you in the kitchen.”

Crowley arched a brow. “What evidence?”

“Well, the smell, of course. The fruit. Although—” Aziraphale nodded toward his chest. “—the apron was also a significant clue.”

“Apron?” Crowley repeated blankly, then peered down at himself and screamed internally. The apron he’d miracled to protect his clothes was still in place, covered in splotches of flour, sugar, and egg yolk. He’d been to the creperie like that. He was standing in front of Aziraphale, right now, messy and covered in bits of food, and Satan only knew what state his hair was in.

Crowley snapped his fingers and put himself back to rights. “For Heaven’s sake, angel, you couldn’t have mentioned it earlier?”

Aziraphale giggled. Outright giggled. It was only Crowley’s love for him that saved him from the fiery vengeance of a wrathful demon.

“I thought you looked charming.” Aziraphale moved closer, bringing with him a familiar waft of leather bindings and old paper, and beneath, the scent Crowley had long ago identified as home. “More than that, I thought it was sweet. My dearest, darling fellow, the great Anthony J. Crowley, cooking and getting his clothes dirty for me.”

What Crowley wanted to say was, “I’d get a lot more than that dirty for you, angel. I’d do the dirtiest things you can possibly imagine.”

What actually came out of his mouth was, “Shut it… or I’ll hoard all these crepes for myself. Every last one.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “You wouldn’t. I skipped breakfast knowing I’d be coming here. And those strawberries look scrumptious.”

Naturally, Aziraphale had Crowley’s number, as he always did. One look at those hopeful, puppy-dog eyes and Crowley would hand him the world—or try, anyway.

Crowley shoved his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. He could practically _feel_ the massive waves of fondness pouring off him in the angel’s direction. No sense making it more obvious by returning Aziraphale’s gaze with a lovestruck expression of his own.

“Come on, angel,” he said, voice gruff. “Wouldn’t want you starving.”

Aziraphale’s beseeching countenance vanished in an instant, and the adorable smile returned.

Even knowing he’d been played, for quite possibly the millionth time in their acquaintance, Crowley made sure his angel’s first crepe had an extra scoop of strawberries.


End file.
